


The Hidden Language Of The Soul

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Dancing, Fluff, Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-08 00:05:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1919217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos makes a request of Athos that leads to something neither of them expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hidden Language Of The Soul

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for this prompt over on the [Kinkmeme](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org):
> 
> "With his upbringing, Athos had to learn how to do quite a few things he no longer does. With Porthos's upbringing, there are things Athos had to learn that Porthos never had any reason to learn.
> 
> Dancing is one of them. Except Porthos one day needs/wants to learn and goes to Athos to help him out.
> 
> Long story short: Athos teaches Porthos to dance. It leads to sex, of course.
> 
> Bonus points for awkwardness and endlessly patient teacher!Athos."
> 
> My experience of dance begins and ends with having once watched half an episode of _Strictly Come Dancing_ and participating in some alcohol-fuelled arm-flailing. So please don't expect any technically correct depictions of foxtrots or anything!
> 
>  _Dance is the hidden language of the soul_ – Martha Graham

In celebration of a particularly fine summer’s day, the king had announced his intention to throw an impromptu garden party with the declaration that such delightful weather should not be wasted.

The news of the function was well received by the members of the royal court and their closest friends, but for everyone else it meant extra duties. The one bonus was that, in acting as guards, the Musketeers were able to enjoy being outside in sunlight just bright enough to be pleasantly warm rather than stifling.

While Athos remained dutifully alert for any sign that all was not well, Porthos’s eyes were drawn to the gathering of people drinking, laughing, and dancing on the neatly manicured lawn. It was not the guests themselves that had captured his attention, however – not even the most beautiful ladies in their summer dresses – but the way they and their partners were moving so gracefully to the music played by the small band of musicians.

A round of applause greeted the conclusion of their spontaneous dance, and Porthos shook himself from his admiring reverie. Turning to Athos, he indicated the dancers with a tilt of his head. “You must know how to dance like that.”

Athos quirked an eyebrow at the unexpected observation. “Yes, I did once learn.”

Porthos nodded thoughtfully. The similarities in their lives now, united as Musketeers and sworn to protect the king, meant that the differences of their pasts were rarely noticeable, and not in any way that hindered their friendship. Sometimes, however, Porthos wondered what it must be like to possess a skill so refined and elegant.

Dancing was not something that would have aided him growing up on the streets of the Court of Miracles, but it seemed such a natural expression of merriment and a way in which to share that joy with another person.

“Will you teach me?”

Athos must have thought the matter already ended, for now both eyebrows shot up in surprise.

Immediately recognizing the absurdity of his request, Porthos backtracked. “Don’t worry. It’s a stupid idea.”

“No, no,” Athos instantly assured him, “not at all.” From anyone else, Porthos would have expected a mocking comment, but Athos was completely sincere. “I am merely surprised that you would like to learn.” 

His astonishment was understandable; had the request come from Aramis or d’Artagnan it would not have seemed so incongruous, but Porthos had never before shown any desire to learn to dance. Athos was far more accustomed to watching him brawl, and while the way he fought hand-to-hand had an elegance of its own, it was one far removed from the strict posture and smooth lines associated with dancing.

“Yeah, well.” Porthos gave a shrug, now a little embarrassed to have ventured his request. “I never got the chance to learn anything so…elegant.”

“It has been a while since I have had occasion for such pursuits,” Athos admitted, and Porthos wondered if he was hesitant to revisit even this aspect of his previous life. He was beginning to regret ever asking.

But it seemed Athos had a different issue in mind. “I may be a little out of practise.”

Porthos grinned, taking Athos’s admission as a sign that he was considering agreeing to teach him. “I doubt I would notice. I’d be too busy trippin’ over my own feet.”

In response to either the joke or the tentative delight dancing in Porthos’s eyes, Athos smiled. “Very well. I accept the challenge.”

* * * *

When Athos later opened the door to admit Porthos into his apartment, Porthos noted that he was already prepared; his weapons had been set aside and he had removed his doublet, which now lay draped over a chair. The few items of furniture he possessed were all pushed to the sides of the room.

It also looked like he was part way into a bottle of wine. Porthos could only assume he was fortifying himself for the trial ahead.

Athos glanced at Porthos and gestured at his attire. “Remove your belt and doublet. You’ll need to be able to move freely.”

Porthos did as requested, placing his sword and pistols alongside those of Athos and laying his doublet on the chair that was serving as a wardrobe. Satisfied, Athos stepped into the centre of the room and motioned for Porthos to join him.

Standing awkwardly before Athos, Porthos awaited some kind of direction. Recognising his utter lack of knowledge, Athos decided a hands-on approach was necessary. Taking Porthos’s right hand, he placed it upon his own shoulder, then clasped Porthos’s left hand with his right. He left enough of a gap between them to allow the floor to be visible when he cast his gaze down.

“When you dance, you must keep your back straight and your head up,” Athos informed him, launching straight into his role. “But for now, you should look down to watch our feet. I will start with my right, so you—”

Athos broke his instruction short when he raised his eyes and saw the deep crease of a frown between Porthos’s brows.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m the woman?”

The affronted tone with which Porthos made this observation caused a twitch at the corner of Athos’s mouth that he could only assume was a sign of misplaced amusement.

“You can hardly lead when you don’t know what you are doing,” Athos pointed out, not unreasonably.

Porthos conceded the point by wrinkling his nose unhappily. “But don’t I have to learn the man’s part?”

“First, you must learn the dance.” Athos waited until Porthos accepted the sense in that. “Don’t worry, I shall be the perfect gentleman.”

Porthos snorted, but nodded for Athos to continue.

They began slowly, with Athos giving him direction for each step, and Porthos quickly learned there was a repetition to the movements that made it easier to prepare for what came next, so long as he could remember the sequence. Athos steadily increased the pace until they were moving with a rhythm more akin to real dancing. The heat of Athos’s hand resting at his waist was almost distracting, as was the way he moved with the same poise and grace with which he wielded a sword.

Porthos was about to silently congratulate himself for so far avoiding crushing Athos’s feet when he misjudged a step and kicked the man in the shin.

“Sorry.” Porthos sheepishly muttered his apology as they paused for a moment.

Athos bent to rub his abused leg. “I’ll survive,” he judged after his brief inspection. “Although I don’t know what I’ll tell Treville tomorrow when he asks why I am limping.”

“Say you were kicked by a horse.”

“It certainly feels that way,” Athos rejoined, deadpan.

“Oi!”

Athos raised a placating hand, although he knew Porthos’s indignant pout was completely feigned. “Why don’t you try leading,” he offered as a means of atoning for his slight.

Eager but rather uncertain, Porthos mirrored Athos’s previous stance, placing his hand at Athos’s waist. It felt strange to be holding him in a way that was almost intimate, but it made him wish he knew what he was doing; he suddenly wanted to be able to lead Athos in the same way he had watched the men guide their partners on the lawn.

At first, Athos directed him with instructions, then by counting. It was when the counting segued into humming that a grin spread across Porthos’s face. Now he had mastered the rhythm he could relax and enjoy the thrill of leading Athos around the room. Any time he faltered, Athos gently steered him back on course, but otherwise allowed himself to be escorted through the steps.

The main problem they encountered was the size of the room; they had to make frequent turns to avoid colliding with the walls. It was as they made one such turn that Porthos realised just how much the activity had affected him physically. Athos stepped back into position, this time without leaving the gap between their bodies, and a spark of arousal jolted through Porthos, causing him to stumble.

Porthos sprang away from Athos, leaving him stood alone with a puzzled frown forming a crease between his brows.

“Maybe we should stop for tonight.” Porthos was unable to meet Athos’s eyes lest his friend read the thoughts racing through his mind. His voice sounded, even to his own ears, gruffer than he would have liked.

Athos studied him for a moment with that damned inscrutable gaze of his before he reached a decision of his own. “There’s no need to stop.”

Wondering if Athos had somehow missed the cause of Porthos’s sudden discomfort, Porthos found himself unable to move as Athos stepped back up to him. He tensed, waiting with his heart pounding against his ribs for Athos to notice and push him away in disgust.

It didn’t happen. Instead, Athos’s arms slid around his waist and he pressed himself flush against Porthos. Stunned, Porthos could only gape mutely as Athos searched his eyes for a sign of approval. Perhaps he _had_ correctly perceived the reason behind Porthos’s proposal to cut short the lesson, but he still sought confirmation that Porthos truly wanted this.

Porthos had no doubts about his own desires, but he needed that same reassurance Athos was looking for.

“You’re sure?” he asked, finally finding his voice.

“Do you require more proof than this?” In a surprisingly bold display of impulsiveness that was uncharacteristic of the typically stoic soldier, Athos ground his hips forward so that Porthos could not mistake the evidence that he was in much the same state of arousal as Porthos himself.

The trace of trepidation lurking within the green eyes fled as Porthos gave a deep groan that ended in a grin and wrapped his arms around Athos, locking him in place as Porthos thrust back. He was rewarded by both a rush of heat and the sight of Athos’s eyes drooping shut as he was caught unaware by his own wave of pleasure.

Reluctantly, Porthos pulled back, but only far enough to allow him to duck his head and capture Athos’s lips in a kiss. Athos opened willingly to his questing tongue and Porthos wondered at being permitted to witness this side of Athos, the passion that had for so long remained hidden behind a protective barrier of sombre restraint.

Athos gladly relinquished what remained of his role as the one in command, allowing Porthos to walk him backwards to the bed. As Porthos pressed Athos onto the mattress and bent low for another kiss, he felt Athos’s hands steal under the hem of his shirt to skim over the planes of his back and sides. Porthos helpfully tugged the linen over his head and did the same for Athos.

Seeing this as the perfect opportunity to divest them both of the rest of their clothing, Porthos sat up and perched astride Athos’s thighs. But before he began work on the buttons of Athos’s breeches he paused to palm the now clearly evident bulge of his erection through the leather, awed that Athos should be this hard for _him_.

The hiss of a sharply drawn breath drew Porthos’s attention back up to Athos’s face, and the look of open, undisguised need he found there promptly spurred him back into action. Stripping Athos of his breeches, braies, and boots, he let them drop to the floor where they were joined moments later by his own.

Lowering back down over the bed, Porthos covered Athos’s body with his own, taking care to align himself so that hard, heated flesh met, trapped between the tight press of their bodies. Athos arched up to meet him, his hands returning to Porthos’s back where they clutched, grasped, urging him closer.

Porthos dropped his head to nuzzle along a bristled jaw and down, where teeth and tongue explored the newly bared skin at the juncture where neck met shoulder.

They rocked together, finding a rhythm that provided friction between sweat-slick skin, Athos meeting every roll of Porthos’s hips. _This_ was what Porthos had seen in the dancing couples – admittedly not explicitly, but it amounted to the same thing: a private, wordless communication between two souls.

The fingers at Porthos’s back tightened their grip, short nails digging into muscle as Athos’s motion grew more erratic, more urgent. Porthos quickly licked his palm and slid his hand between their bodies, taking hold of them both in a firm grip, clasping them together in the tight circle of his fist.

Athos thrust against him and Porthos felt the drag of rigid flesh; it was enough to push him over the precipice. Even as he was swept up in the heady ecstasy of his own release, he continued to tug at Athos, coaxing him to follow.

Then Athos jerked, shuddering beneath him as he came into Porthos’s hand.

As the tremors subsided, Athos turned his head to press his cheek to Porthos’s, their chests heaving as they gasped for air, but both reluctant to part.

Eventually, so as not to keep Athos crushed beneath his weight, Porthos rolled to the side, leaving one leg trailing over Athos’s thigh. His hand he placed on Athos’s chest, where his fingers traced lazy patterns though soft hair.

It was several minutes later that Porthos broke the blissful silence. “If I’d known dancin’ was like this, I’d’ve asked you to teach me years ago.”

“ _That_ wasn’t dancing, Porthos,” Athos patiently pointed out.

“I dunno,” Porthos argued, undeterred. “Two bodies moving together in harmony? Doesn’t seem all that different to me.”

Athos gave a soft huff of amusement at that, but didn’t contradict him.

“So, how’d I do?” Porthos asked, genuinely curious to know if the lesson had been at all successful in its original purpose.

“The bruise on my leg notwithstanding, I’d say you showed some promise.”

Porthos arched an eyebrow above mischievously gleaming eyes. “Reckon I might need a few more lessons.”

Athos rolled his eyes in a way that spoke of long-suffering forbearance. While Porthos knew it was only in jest, he did fear he might be suggesting something Athos was not yet able to agree to.

“That’s if you want—”

“Yes.” Athos cut him short, brushing his knuckles reverently over Porthos’s bicep. “It would be my pleasure.”

Porthos beamed at him, and bent down to accept the promise with another kiss.


End file.
